


One Night Before the Storm

by glassbox



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassbox/pseuds/glassbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reflections at the '46 Havana Conference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I feel like this is finished, but it's been sitting forgotten for ages. Have at it.

When you finally get back to your room for the night you find Meyer sitting out on the balcony with a half-empty bottle of booze, sad-eyed and slumped over, waiting.

You pause at the threshold, surprise at seeing him there making you slow to react. He’s half-hidden in shadow and facing away from you, but after nearly a lifetime shared you’d recognize him anyplace.

He’s gazing out upon the city when you sit down next to him, listening to the not-so-distant sound of waves lapping ashore. You don’t bother to check the time, settling for the knowledge that it’s late enough to be early.

He doesn't move to look at you when you sit. You want to break the silence but can’t think of anything to say, besides What are you doing here – and of course you already know the answer to that. You’re soon saved the trouble when he cuts the darkness with a hoarse, mangled voice that you've never heard from him before,

“I killed him, Charlie.”

You know what he’s talking about, of course. The two of you have hardly broached any other topic since your arrival. This is business, Meyer, and Benny has broken our rules – the last thing you told him, still banging around inside your head, tempered not in the slightest by the knowledge that it’s true.

It’s not regret, exactly. There’s no room for regret in this game.

“There’s nothing we can do. It was bound to turn out this way eventually.”

He looks over at you, then, but there’s nothing in his eyes, no spark of comprehension. None of the warmth he always had for you alone. It’s as if he’s looking at a different person, as though he doesn't recognize you.

You cringe inwardly at the thought.

He glances away and declares in an expressionless tone, one that makes it clear he’s simply stating a fact, “I loved you, y’know. When we were kids.”

Something constricts in your chest until you can’t breathe, can’t speak, until it feels as though your heart has stopped. You convulsively reach out for him, a drowning man trying to save himself, but manage to force your hands back to stillness in your lap.

“And now?”

You don’t think you want to hear the answer, but you can’t stop the question from spilling out. What you want doesn't matter anymore.

His eyes snap back to meet your own and he surveys you for a long moment, almost long enough for it to be uncomfortable. Then, as if he’s found what he’s looking for, his expression softens and he leans forward to lay a hand aside your face.

When he speaks his voice seems to have recovered some of its usual strength.

“Now I need to come to terms with what I've got left.”

You sigh and lean into his touch like you used to, suddenly noticing the weight of years upon you; years and countless betrayals and too many things unspoken. You touch the back of his hand with light fingertips, debating for a bare moment. Then you stand.

“Will you stay the night?”

You whisper it, so low that at first you think he didn't hear and spend the ensuing seconds wondering whether you have the courage to ask again. Instead his eyes flash and he leans back, perhaps remembering the last time you’d uttered those words, ten long years ago. Then his lips twitch and he nods.

“Always.”


End file.
